Swing
by poisonx8
Summary: Fletcher and Russell must now atone for the crimes they committed. Now it's their turn to feel the pain and anguish the people of Xenotime did because of that cursed Red Water. No amount of alchemy can save these two now. FMA2003


Collaboration with fellow reader. Enjoy! This Fic was inspired by another fic, Pit and the Pendulum by Locked Myself up In a Room

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Feet pounded against the pavement. The night air was crisp with insects singing and the occasional car passing by. In the distance the huff and puff of a young teenage boy was heard, desperate with a need to escape.

Fletcher's mind was haunted with the image of his brother, Russell's body hitting the cold hard pavement. Time. His brother had been trying to buy him time; all he wanted to do was protect his brother one last time. In the end he had actually failed his brother, his obsession with fathers work was prioritized and it had meant the death of himself and the unknown fate of his kid brother.

The alchemy he performed wasn't enough to hold off actual State Alchemists. Rather than unarming and detaining him like he had half hoped, they ended his life right on the spot. With his last breath he watched his brother turn in horror and watch his soul leave his body. He'd never know if Fletcher had kept running or turned back.

He rounded a corner hoping it would lead to the back end of a building and into the woods, he was wrong. The young boy came face to face with a wall adjoining the two buildings. A gulp trapped in his throat as he heard the click of guns, saw the head lights against the wall and felt the presence of the military behind him.

He didn't dare turn around. Not entirely sure if it was his last act of defiance, the frozen blood in his veins that halted all movement or just pure fear coursing through his body. Regardless of what it was, all Fletcher could do was will his hands to go up in the air, hoping he wouldn't meet the same fate as his late brother.

"Don't move!" A voice boomed behind him. It took everything in his power not to panic and clap his hands. He wasn't planning on moving any time soon, more so because he just couldn't. The voices continue, "Fletcher Tringham, you are under arrest." He knew his fate was sealed, even if he had gotten away, where he was going to go.

The young blond felt arms roughly grasp his raised arms, bringing them down behind him and cuffing him in the process. The Alchemist turned him and he noticed just how outnumbered he was. Not only was he surrounded by the military, but the gleam of pocket watches gave away their status of Alchemists.

He was roughly handled and thrown in the back of the car waiting to claim the body of its criminal. He sat in the back uncomfortably, the binding digging into his skin. He was alone and scared. Worst of all, he actually was guilty. There was no reasoning out of this, not in the slightest.

"We're here." The driver had announced. The back doors opened, flooding the car with the dim lighting from the street. Fletcher was roughly pulled out and yanked across onto a dirt pathway. They walked for what felt like hours. Trees surrounded them as they walked the path, dancing in the wind, mocking his impending doom. Finally they came to a secluded area; a simple old-time looking building came into view. He looked around and couldn't find another soul in sight except for them.

There he was shoved unceremoniously into a small room. One of the men in the car had bent down and shackled his ankles together, allowing small tiny steps as he was led into a bigger room. There he stood before a group of mysterious men dressed in black hooded garments.

"Fletcher Tringham." A loud voice called, hushing the crowd. He looked ahead to see a shrouded figure in a black cloak standing before him. "You stand before us under arrest for the following reasons." He nodded towards a subordinate beside him in a group of black cloaks to continue

"Impersonation, research of a toxic substance, endangering public health, tapping into State Alchemist resources and escape from prison."

Fletcher had a fleeting moment of anger well in him. His brother wasn't here, his father was long dead and he could barely remember his mother. He was angry his brother was dead, he wanted him to be here by his side, like the good big brother he prided himself to be. While his brother had tried to help him by creating a decoy so Fletcher could get away, he was able to die quickly. Who knew what was in store for Fletcher if he was found guilty. The blond then realized he was angry at his brother for dying before him instead of with him.

He didn't see any hope of being able to plead his side; he couldn't even convince himself of being innocent. His face reddened as his head hung in despair. Murmurs broke out among the crowd before him. Nothing but murmurs around him, it was driving him mad. When it stopped he looked up to find the man had a hand raised to cease talk.

"How does the jury find this boy?"

A member from the black cloak group stood. Fletcher gulped, he knew of this group. He'd read about them in the handbook in the library they stole access to. They were only brought out for terrible, horrendous criminals who commit even worse deeds. His stomach dropped, they already knew the verdict.

"Guilty."

There it was, his fate was sealed. His life locked behind a door, key tossed into the pit of despair. There was nothing to do now but accept it. He was alone and he was going to endure this all alone. The light in his soul had finally diminished.

Fletcher was lead away from the center of the room towards a door in the back. Once he walked through that door the wrought iron door slammed behind him. He was led through a hall of cells, all empty. That wasn't a good sign; this meant whoever was sent down here didn't last long enough to vacate the cells. He was dragged towards a door off on the side at the end of the first section of cells. What was the point of this many cells if they never stayed filled.

Before he could even process being dragged into the room, his green headband was ripped off his head. One of the men came towards him with a knife. He cowered in fear, trying to inch away from the man. He was gripped by his hair, keeping him still as the man cut away his clothing, occasionally nicking parts of his pale skin. He felt the blood trickle down his body, hitting the stone floor. He was stripped of all his clothing until he stood there bare as birth. The man came forward grumbling about dressing the criminal. He was fitted in a tight, pure white, fundoshi. It clung to him in all the wrong ways, digging into his waist and biting into the crevice of his thigh, nearly cutting off circulation. With it being so tight around him, it didn't give much room to cover his modesty.

Fletcher was walked down the rest of the cells towards two doors facing each other. The same man who dressed him dragged him into the door on the left. The lights came on and Fletcher felt his doom settle in. The middle of the room housed a round deep tank, completely see through. On the side was a slab of stone with cuffs hanging from each corner. He looked around more, becoming completely speechless. He hoped what he was in fear of wasn't what was coming to him.

Two men dragged home over to the tank and hooked him up to two chains hanging from the ceiling. They raised him up and unceremoniously dunked him in the frigid cold water. He struggled naturally, afraid he would run out of breathe. Right before he felt like he would pass out they yanked him out the water. He downed two lungs full of air before they dipped him back in like battered fish in a fryer. He flopped around, knowing he should calm down but, his mind was on over drive. What were they doing to him; all he wanted to know was why.

By the third time they pulled him up for air one of the men spoke, "This is so you'll get a taste of what all those villagers felt when they were coughing their lungs up. This is how they felt, unable to get a clean breath of air in their lungs. Children felt this pain!" Fletcher's lungs burned with the frantic breath he was forced to take in before being forced under again. After another five dunks they swung his tired body away from the tank and let his body land on the ground with a loud thud.

He was dragged by his hair over to the slab he saw earlier and shackled to it, unable to move on his own will. The one who explained his punishment earlier walked over with a vial of some unknown liquid in his hand. Fletcher hoped this was poison that would relieve him of his sorrows. He parted his lips slightly about to allow the possible sweet release of death.

"You're going to drink your brother's retched blood."

Fletcher's eyes widened, it wasn't poison. It was way worse. How could he bring himself to drink this, it was his own flesh and blood. He could bring himself to even try to swallow this, out of anger for his brother at the same time as love and admiration he had left of him. What innocence would he have left, if he was forced to down this concoction like a madman, a cannibal.

Fletcher pressed his lips together with all his might, tossing his head side to side, trying to resist the liquid. Another figure came forward gripping his head still by his hair. The other hand came down gripping his jaw, forcing it open. His head was tilted back causing his throat to open against his will. The man poured the contents in his mouth. The young battered boy tried to close off his throat to keep the contents from dribbling down, but this only caused him to choke and swallow most of the liquid. His eyes burned as he coughed on the left over stuck in his throat.

Before he could gather his bearings, his legs were unshackled and he was pulled off the slab of rock. Suspended by his arms he waited for what was next. Hoping he would die from shock before they could continue. He shivered from the air beating against his wet skin. He gasped as one of the black robed men flogged him. After ten flogs they rubbed salt in his wounds. This added insult to injury, he thought back to the state killing his brother, to add to it they were tormenting him all alone. As if witnessing his brother die wasn't bad enough. This process went on for fifty flogs, at least, he thought it was fifty. He started losing count after a while. He remembered feeling salt rubbed in his lashes at least five times.

The vial came into view again. He was too tired to fight this time. The man gripped his face and forced his mouth open, not that he really put up much of a fight this time, he just didn't have any spirit left to his name. As much as he felt hopeless he still didn't want to swallow his brother's blood. Once they poured the contents in his mouth, they forced his mouth close and pinched his nose. He fought for air and instinctively swallowed to try and open his mouth. His heart dropped as he felt his brother's blood travel down his throat once more.

Back to the slab he went, His skin rubbing on the uneven surface. He grimaced at the pain, but the cooling touch of the slab was nice on his raw skin. At least there was some reprieve. He's starting to drift in and out now, physically exhausted and mentally broken. He thought to all the people in Xenotime. This must have been how they felt, broken, tired, helpless and afraid. Some were alone after their family had died out from the toxic.

His eyes wander over to a metal rod with some symbol on the end of it. The symbol glowing red, hissing from the intense heat applied to the material. Fletcher began to panic briefly. He would be branded, like the lonely nothing he was. The man pressed the metal to his chest, searing his flesh. He nearly threw up from the smell of burnt flesh, from _his_ burnt flesh. It didn't take long to brand him. When the metal was removed he looked down to see it was the kanji for death. That was the last thing before he passed out from exhaustion and pure pain.

Fletcher awoke to bleak darkness. He had hoped this was death, the sweet embrace of death. The searing pain in his back and chest told him otherwise. He tried to sit up only to fall back over, his hands bound together in the front of his body.

He couldn't tell where he was until his eyes started adjusting more to the darkness. There was a dim light that illuminated the bars locking him in. He watched the dull glow, hoping to see sign of life coming for him. He wanted to cry and scream for help, but who would aid a criminal. Children had died at the hands of his father and brother's research for crying out loud. He was no longer an innocent child in the eyes of the State. He was the criminal that was locked in the cells awaiting sentencing.

Fletcher laid there for what felt like hours, drifting in and out of sleep. The pain in his back dulling but his chest continued to scream and haunt him, reminding his conscience of all the pain he himself had caused with his brother.

He lay there in the barely lit cell, on the cold floor. Sometimes he'd fidget against the fundoshi. Sitting in the cell from being dunked in cold water and having the tight fabric wound around his was beginning to cause a rash in the crevices of his thighs. Not likely he would be alive long enough to have to deal with the rash anyway. He felt bare and belittled lying in the decrepit cell like nothing. The insects flying and crawling in and out between the bars had more freedom than he. Fletcher was reduced to that of lower than insects.

Fletcher fought the tiredness his young body felt from the day's event. His mind drifted back to Alphonse and Edward at the trial. They still believed he was innocent. Even if he couldn't see Al's face, the fact he was there with his brother screaming for him was enough to give him some peace in the impending death he was to face. There was no denying it Fletcher would die, maybe soon or perhaps they'd rot him away in this cell. Regardless of how it happened, he hoped it wouldn't be prolonged. He deserved to be sent to where his brother and father probably were. His brother. That was the last thing he thought of before the darkness consumed him once more.

 _Swish. Swish._ Fletcher's eyes slowly opened and his heart stopped immediately following what was before him. He knew he'd die, but to die like this? Out of natural response he yanked his arms at his bindings, no good. His legs? They weren't budging either. Fletcher's body retched against the stone slab he was tied to. His back protesting the constant slamming from all the flailing he did and his chest ached with the dulling burn. He stilled as he noticed the pendulum was swinging lower now.

The shiny blade taunted him as it lowered itself closer to him inch by inch, swing by swing. Fletcher couldn't fight anymore. He had nothing left in him to fight and nothing worth fighting for. His father was dead, his mother long gone and now his brother lay in a grave somewhere.

He couldn't feel sorry for his brother or his father anymore. While it was his fault for following his brother, what was he to do without him. A young boy, no father or mother to guide him. He did love his brother dearly, but it was because of his brother that he was in this mess, enduring a punishment for the both of them because he wasn't alive to take his own consequence. In the end he was alone. In the end he was as he had started in this world, scared, bare, tired and alone.

Fletcher shut his eyes as he felt the wind push against him from the swing of the pendulum. His death was tangible now, closer and closer. This was how he would die, the inhumane way he lived, sacrificing people for their own personal selfish gain. He would die feeling himself ripped apart as the Xenotime people felt when the toxic substance took hold of their bodies, wringing them for all the life they possessed.

A blood curdling scream finally erupted from Fletcher's mouth as the pressure and precision of the blade made its first slice. Then the second, lowering itself with each swing now. Someone had to be controlling this. The screams left his lips one by one, louder and louder as it cut into him. The weight of the ginormous blade breaking a rib or two with each swing, he cried in pain. Unable to think, the hefty pressure digging in to the wound it inflicted. Blood. Everything was drenched in his blood. This is what all the blood in a human body looked like spilled on the floor, the slab and the blade. There was so much his little body could hold.

Fletcher was beginning to lose consciousness, the pain unbearable. He wish he would pass out by now, but each swing through his flesh woke him up, a scream emitting from deep within his throat. At last, his final scream turned into a cut off gurgled. The blade had split his spinal cord; ceasing all communication throughout his body. There he lay in a mess on the slab, a mess in his own crimes.


End file.
